


Under the White Banner

by Lady_Branwyn



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brothers, Character Study, Children, Coming of Age, Drabble, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Ficlet, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Gondor, Grief/Mourning, Light Angst, Mother-Son Relationship, Pre-War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2020-06-03 18:16:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19469461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Branwyn/pseuds/Lady_Branwyn
Summary: Short fics from Gondor in the days of the last ruling Steward





	1. After the Storm (Boromir, Faramir, Imrahil)

Cast above the tide, a tangle of seaweed and wood steamed in the sun. Imrahil and the children searched among the wreckage. 

“Look, Uncle Imrahil!” Faramir pointed to a curved plank that jutted from the sand. 

“From a Southron ship, by the looks of it,” Imrahil replied slowly. “Perhaps she was wrecked in the storm.” Frowning, he glanced toward the sea that gleamed like a mirror of hammered silver. 

“Maybe they were corsairs?” Boromir said with a hopeful look. “And they swam ashore with long knives in their teeth.” 

Dark head bowed, Faramir traced a finger along the strange carvings on the plank. “Why are ships called _she_? They’re not beasts or people.” 

“Because—“ Imrahil stopped. He could recite a dozen lewd jokes on the subject, but he did not know the true reason. Why _were_ ships called she? “We will have to ask the loremasters,” he told the child. 

Boromir slashed at the air with a stick. “Uncle Imrahil, Faramir and I need swords if we’re going to fight the corsairs.” This was only the third time he had asked for a sword that day. 

_But the day is still young,_ Imrahil thought, trying not to laugh.


	2. The Same River Twice (Denethor, Boromir, Faramir)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the "River" challenge at the Tolkien_weekly LiveJournal community

“No man ever steps in the same river twice,” their father said as Faramir dipped a wary foot in the water then waded into the shallows. 

“Why not?” Boromir looked up from digging a hole in the sand. 

“The river is always changing—and so is the man.” 

“But it’s still the Anduin, isn’t it? And I will never change.” 

“I daresay you will not, my son,” Denethor said with the faintest glint of a smile. 

Squinting against the sun’s reflected glare, Faramir watched the dreamlike sway and the flickering gleam and shadow as the river flowed over his feet.


	3. Starry Mantle (Denethor, Finduilas)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the "Indigo" challenge at the Tolkien_weekly LiveJournal community

Chill air flowed down from the indigo-shadowed slopes, and Finduilas shivered, unused to such cold. With a bow, Lord Denethor offered his fur-lined cloak. Behind them, the chaperone rustled disapprovingly.

“Look!” Finduilas pointed as a tiny light flared overhead then fell toward the horizon. “In Dol Amroth, we wish on a falling star.” 

“And what would you wish for, lady?” Lord Denethor’s voice was grave but not unkind.

“I cannot tell, or the wish will not come true.”

Another star streaked across the heavens. As he took her hand, she marveled at how warm he felt against her chilled flesh.


	4. Bedazzled (Aragorn, Finduilas)

They were all a little in love with her, from the smooth-cheeked squires to the battered men-at-arms. Even as they knelt to renew their oaths to Ecthelion, more than a few eyes were turned away from their lord to where she stood beside the dais. Fifty years later, Aragorn still remembered how tiny her figure had seemed, too slight to bear the gown of silver cloth. He had feared its weight would pull her over. How little he had understood of women and their strength, how little he knew of what they could bear! 

The light in her face was as bright as the dance of sunlight on the water, and when a draft caught her veil, it billowed out like a mainsail. 

The captains had knelt in a row before the dais, with the lesser ranks crowded behind them. At Aragorn’s side, young Denethor tried to look stern, his eyes flitting between his father and his bride, as he repeated the solemn words of the oath. He stumbled badly on the last line. No doubt aware of their distraction, the steward barked out his response then gave his soldiers a curt dismissal. 

With the gleam of silver and the flash of blue silk, Finduilas hastened toward the row of captains. Blue and silver, silver and blue; the cloth rippled in waves at her feet. Aragorn was minded of bright days he had known in Dol Amroth where the wind was swept clean by a thousand leagues of water. Never did his heart waver from the one he had chosen, yet still he felt light-headed as he watched her take her husband’s hand, as if he had stared too long at the sun on the water.


	5. When the Days Are Warm (Finduilas, Boromir, Faramir)

This chamber had always smelled so sweet, like lavender and sunlight, but now the air seemed dark and stale. _If only the servants would open the windows,_ Boromir thought. He felt a gentle but stubborn tug at his hand as Faramir sought to pull away. He loosened his grip and watched as, with a happy squeal, Faramir ran to their mother. Though her head was bowed, as if in slumber, she quickly looked up at the sound of his voice. Her chair was drawn close to the brazier, and she wore a fur-lined mantle over her gown. 

Faramir held up a muddy fistful of crocuses. “Mother! I brought you these flowers!” A shower of dirt pattered to the floor. He had yanked the crocuses out by their roots before Boromir could stay his hand. 

Leaning forward, their mother admired the gift. “That is very kind of you. How beautiful they are.” 

“They are yellow,” Faramir said, wisely nodding his head. His younger brother often spoke these great truths, and Boromir always struggled not to laugh. Yet today he felt strangely annoyed by this chatter. 

“Yellow like sunshine or egg yolks,” their mother replied with a smile. Faramir giggled. 

“But he pulled up your flowers, Mother. Now they will wither and die.” Boromir scowled at his brother. 

“No, you need only plant them back in the ground, and they will flower for many more years. The gardener can show you how.” She put one arm around him while clasping Faramir with the other, wrapping them both in the mantle. 

“Could you come to the garden and show us? I can dig the holes. And Faramir will help.” 

“I can help!” his brother said, his voice a high-pitched echo. The bruised and muddy flowers were still clenched in his hand. 

Boromir squirmed in his mother’s grasp, trying to stand upright. “You can sit on the bench and tell us what needs to be done.” 

“The cold is too bitter, my love. When the days are warm again.” His mother drew him closer, until he no longer could look in her eyes. 

“Do you promise? As soon as the days are warm, then you will come outside with us?” The soft fur of the mantle pressed against his face. 

“Of course, Boromir,” she murmured into his hair. “I promise.”


	6. Diagnosis (Denethor, Finduilas)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dark alternate universe  
> Written for the "Blue" challenge at the Tolkien_weekly LiveJournal community

Where the healers had failed, Lord Denethor made the diagnosis. With a kindly smile, he gave the half-empty cup to the toddler, bidding her drink. 

"No, lord! Have mercy on my child!" The serving maid knelt at his feet and wept. What threat or hidden sin had turned her poisoner? 

In the garden, the irises swayed like the sea. He felt his wife's cold hands, saw her bluish nails. The servants fetched a woolen mantle; Denethor drew the silver-spangled cloth around her shoulders. "I would give you the sun, the moon, and the stars," he murmured into her brittle hair.


	7. Unfinished Work (Denethor, Original Character)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A ghost story written for the "Six Days of Spooky" challenge.

“Is this an ill-favored jest? Did you hold your mistress so lightly that you take her belongings for your own use?” 

“I did not touch it, lord,” the maidservant whispered, eyes owlish in the shadowy chamber. 

In a softer voice, the steward asked, “Or did she ask you to finish this before she—“ 

“No, lord!” The maid began to weep. “Indeed, I have not her skill with the needle.” Hiding her face in her apron, she fled from the chamber. 

Lord Denethor stood with a small embroidered jacket clenched in his hands. “Come back,” he whispered again and again.


	8. Swimming Lesson (Imrahil, Boromir, Faramir)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the "Bitter" challenge at the Tolkien_weekly LiveJournal community

A sleek head popped above the gentle surf and blew out a spout of water. “Ugh! That tastes terrible!” Boromir scowled as he wiped a hand across his lips. 

Imrahil struggled not to laugh. “Now you know why sailors must carry casks of water.” 

“Look! I am a seal!” Faramir shrieked, flailing about in the shallows. 

“You are getting better at it; keep practicing,” Imrahil called to him. The pair of seals bobbed up and down as the sunlight danced on the waves. His clothing and swordbelt were soon left on the sand as he waded out to join them.


	9. The Token of the Second Son (Boromir, Faramir)

“By long-hallowed tradition is this token borne by the eldest son of our House. Vorondil the Hunter fashioned it from a horn of the wild oxen of the east, and for a thousand years has it been passed from father to son.” Denethor leaned down and draped the baldric over the boy’s shoulders. “Ever have our foes fled at its sound, and within the ancient boundaries of this land, its call for aid will never go unanswered.” 

To his great relief, Boromir remembered the proper words. “May I carry it to victory,” he said loudly. His father raised him to his feet then turned him to face the hall. The people cheered, shouting “Boromir! Lord Boromir!” 

When the ceremeny had ended, he ran to find his brother, ducking past the ranks of counselors and guards. Faramir had had no part to play, so he had been left in the care of one of the older squires. Boromir proudly showed him the war horn; he even let his younger brother hold it. Men and horses and oliphaunts were carved in the yellow ivory, and the horn was bound with fittings wrought of silver. 

Head bowed, Faramir traced a finger along the carvings. “This once belonged to Father, and now it is yours,” he said, his lips pressed tightly together. He handed it back without another word. 

A House and a lordship could have only one heir, and even if Boromir had not been the Steward's heir, he would ever lead his brother in all things merely by virtue of age. He would be the first to have a sword, the first to have a horse and commission. And by ancient tradition, certain treasures came to the heir. This was as it should be, yet still he was troubled by Faramir's downcast look. 

The next day, Boromir waited until after the City bell had struck twice, for he knew that was when his brother rode his pony at the stables. He pushed back the heavy lid of a chest and began to rummage inside. What would serve his purpose? After searching through piles of gear, at last he held up a small object in triumph. 

When Faramir returned, he led him to the great hall. In the late afternoon, no one was there save for a servant wielding a broom. 

“Now you must kneel before the dais, like the captains when they swear fealty,” Boromir ordered. 

“Why?” his brother asked as always. 

“Because otherwise there can be no ceremony.” He recalled what his father had said. “That is long-hallowed tradition.” 

Faramir hurriedly knelt on the bottom step. 

Handing him a lump of black rock, Boromir proclaimed, “This is the lodestone of the second son, which shall henceforth be passed from father to second son. May it always show you the way.” Like the horn of Vorondil, the lodestone was precious and helpful at great need, pointing the traveller to the north. It seemed a fitting heirloom for their House. His father had kissed him on the brow, so Boromir leaned down and embraced his brother. Then, for good measure, he tapped him on each shoulder with a wooden practice sword as if he were being knighted. 

Faramir gazed at him joyfully, the token of the second son clutched in his hands.


	10. Too Many Adverbs (Boromir, Original Character)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the "Awkwardly" challenge at the Tolkien_weekly LiveJournal community

The boy flung down the wax tablet and slumped in his chair. “There are too many adverbs.” 

The loremaster cleared his throat awkwardly. “Lord Boromir, how will you write orders for your captains, unless you can spell adverbs? How will you tell them to assemble _swiftly_ or to march _south_?” 

“A scribe will write for me.” 

“Not when you are on campaign.” 

“Then my lieutenant.” 

“What if he is wounded and you must send for aid before the orcs surround you?” 

The boy sat up. “How many orcs? What are they armed with?” 

The loremaster sighed. “With adverbs, no doubt.”


	11. The Beacon of Erelas (Original Characters)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the "Warm Drinks and Roaring Fires" challenge at the Tolkien_weekly LiveJournal community

The old soldier blew on his crooked fingers and rubbed his hands together. “That roof stops the worst of the snow, but the wood is still damp. We have casks of oil to help set it alight.” 

The other man, leaning heavily on a spear, limped after him. “How long since this beacon was lit?” 

“Many years.” 

“So I am sent to guard a heap of wood, since I am left fit for naught else.” Snow fell like ashes on his black hair. 

“You were sent here to watch for a signal; I see no dishonor in being a scout.”


	12. Conjuror (Denethor, Gandalf)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the "Births" challenge at the Tolkien_weekly LiveJournal community

“Our Enemy breeds his servants from darkness. He is a most powerful wizard.” 

“Nay, Lord Denethor, he is not a wizard, though indeed he is akin to us.” The old man leaned down to take a small, grey stone from the path. At a whispered word, it puffed up and opened into a mushroom. 

“Why do you not conjure me an army, Mithrandir?” 

The wizard held out his hand. The mushroom was a grey stone again. “Why will you not understand, my lord? He creates nothing but merely bends the world to his purpose.” 

“Then indeed you are close kin.”


	13. The Lesson (Faramir)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the "Point" challenge at the Tolkien_weekly LiveJournal community

_How gently men are schooled in war,_ Faramir thought as he raised the longbow. 

First, he had shot blunt arrows with a child's toy of willow. Then, bearing a deadlier bow, he learned to hunt rabbit and deer. Though he pitied the unlucky beasts, a soldier must know how to fare in the wild. Later, he helped shoot the wolves that prowled the timid flocks, and surely this was not wrong. 

Now he drew back the arrow, aiming the point of steel at a soldier. _How gently men are schooled in war, so gently that they see not the lesson._


	14. Old Farmhouse (Faramir)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Tanaqui's birthday

The faint scent of flowering trees drifted over the ruined walls. "Almond or apple," Faramir thought drowzily; trees of the lineage of the rose, with their sweet, five-petaled flowers. 

Long ago, Ithilien was laid out in fields and orchards and well-tended woods, a chessboard with squares of brown and bright green. Apricots, apples and pears were sent to the markets of northern Gondor and south to Belfalas. He tried to imagine all those fruit trees in flower, acre after acre of shining, white branches. 

"How beautiful it must have been," he thought as he drifted to sleep in the farmhouse.


	15. Soldier's Luck (Faramir)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Altariel's birthday and posted at HASA. She asked for Faramir and luck or fate.

Faramir stretched the linen bowstring between his hands, searching for frayed threads; then he drew its length across the block of wax. The waterfall's damp breath soon ruined their gear. 

When his kit was made ready, he unfurled a map from its oilcloth covering. Again he considered the tidings of the scouts, were it wisdom or folly to hazard this chance. Then he called the chosen men. Standing before him, they repeated their orders; he questioned each closely until he was certain they understood the plan. 

After the ambush, the rangers would say, "Our Captain has indeed the soldier's luck."


	16. Three for the White Tree (Faramir, Denethor, others)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Tolkien_weekly "Tree" challenge

I

As he strode across the courtyard, guards scattered before the Steward like dry leaves. “What is this foolishness, Faramir?” 

Crouched under withered branches, the child held out a watering pot. His tunic was soaked and bedraggled with mud. “Maybe the Tree just needs water.” 

Denethor closed his eyes for a moment then spoke as gently as he could. “I fear it has been too long. The Tree has been dead for years.” 

“But I want it to live!” Faramir wailed, clutching the watering pot to his breast. 

“So do I,” Denethor murmured as he gathered his son in his arms. 

II

“What are you, little one?” Stiff and old, his back creaked as he leaned forward.

Many snows had crowned the mountain since last he saw his own kind, but he tried to recall their list of the trees— 

Pine, hemlock, fir, cedar, holly... 

Perhaps he had forgotten one. For this little sapling was none of those, with its leaves flashing green and silver in the wind, but since it was a tree, he took it under his care. 

Browsing deer scattered at his fierce trumpet call, and he piled rocks above to break the wild slide of snow and stone. 

III

“The chronicles do not tell how they planted the last one, sire,” the loremaster said, while the orchardmen could not agree what to do. 

“Look here,” Samwise spoke up. “White Tree or not, it’s still like any tree.” 

“What do you mean?” Aragorn asked. Unfortunately, his time in the woods had not involved taking care of them. 

“Get some soil from up on the mountain. Same as the tree was growin' in. It liked that soil or it wouldn’t have got so tall. 

“As my Gaffer says, people and trees need to feel at home before they’ll put down roots.”


End file.
